CHAPTER XI
"IT'S THE WRONG NUMBER"
Jean Baptiste had come eight hundred miles after one terrible year, tothe feet of his father-in-law, and when he realized that such was thecase upon hanging up the receiver, his composure was gone. Bitter agonybeyond description overwhelmed him when he came from the booth at theend of his brief conversation with Mrs. Pruitt. Never in his life had hebeen as miserable as he now was. It seemed to him that in the next hourhe must surely die of agony. He found a place in the station where hewas very much alone, and for a time gave up to the grief and misery thathad come over him.
"Unless I find some diversion, I will be unfit for anything butsuicide!" he declared, trying to see before him. Out in the West all waswrong. He was now loaded down with debt. His interest was unpaid, alsohis taxes. His creditors for smaller amounts he had not even called uponto say that he was unable to meet his financial obligations. He hadtried being blind to everything but the instance of his wife. He hadjust deliberately cast everything aside until he could have her. Thatwas it. He had made himself believe that only was it necessary to seeher alone, and together they would fly back to the West. He had notreckoned that his arch enemy would be lying like a great dog right atthe door he was to enter.
And now, before he was hardly in the city, he was all but confrontedwith his hypocritical bulk.
"Oh, I can stand it no longer, no, no, no!" he cried in agonizingtones. The world to him was lost. The strong shall be the weakest whenit becomes so, it is said; and surely Jean Baptiste had come to it inthis hour. He had no courage, he had no hope, he had no plans.
After minutes in which he reached nowhere; minutes when all the manhoodin him crept out, and went away to hide, he staggered to his feet. Hestraightened his body, and also his face; he became an automaton. He haddecided to seek artificial stimulation. Thereupon he made his way intothe main waiting room. He looked about him as one in a daze, and finallyturned his face toward the entrance of the station. When there he hadarrived, he hesitated, and looked from right to left. As he did so, hismind went back to some years before when he first saw the city, and hadgone about its streets in search of work. A block or two away herecalled Clark Street, that part of it which had been notorious. Herecalled where one could go and see almost _anything_ he wished.
Now, he was a man, was Jean Baptiste, a man who had loved a wife as menshould; a man who had found a wife and a wife's comfort all he hadlonged for in life. But that one he had taken as wife had fled. She hadleft him to the world, and all that was worldly. He was breaking downunder the strain, and his manhood was for the time gone. He became asmen are, as men have been, and he was at a place where he did not care.He was alone in the world, the prairies had not been good to him, and hefelt he must have rest, oh, rest.
He stepped from the station, and held himself erect with an effort. Heturned to his left, and walked or rather ambled along. He did not knowin particular where he was going, but going somewhere he was. He kepthis face turned to the west, and after many steps, he came to a sidestreet. It was a narrow street, and he recalled it vaguely. It wascalled Custom House Place, and its reputation for the worst, wasequalled by none. Even from where he stood the sound of ragtime musiccame to his ears from a gorgeous saloon across its narrow way.
He listened to it without feeling, no thrill or inspiration did it givehim. He turned into this street after some minutes, and ambled along itsnarrow walkway. As he went along, from force of habit, he studied thevarious forms of vice about. In and out of its many ways, he saw thefamiliar women, the painted faces and the gorgeous eyes. He camepresently to where Negroes stood before a saloon. They, too, were of thetype he understood. Characters with soft hands, and soft skin, and heknew they never worked. He turned into it. A bar was before him, andalthough for liquor he had never cared especially, he could drink. Hewent forward to the bar and ordered a cocktail. He drank it slowly, ashe observed himself, all haggard and worn in the bar mirror, and as hedid so, he could see what was passing behind him. A man sat in a smallante room near a door, and he observed that men would pass by this manto a door opening obviously to a stairway beyond. He wondered what _was_beyond. He ordered another cocktail, and drank it slowly, studying thosewho passed back and forth through the door that the man opened with aspring. He decided to venture thereforth.
When he had drank his cocktail he wandered toward the door also, as ifhe had been accustomed to entering it. The door opened before him and heentered. He found himself in a hallway, with a flight of stairs beforehim, and a closed and locked door on the stairway. He stood regardingit, and espied a bell presently. This he approached and touched.
The door was opened straightway and the flight of stairs continued tothe landing above. He looked up and beheld a woman standing at the topof the stairs, who had seemingly opened the door by pressing a button.He entered and approached her. As he did so, she turned and led him intoa small room, then into a larger room, where sat many other women. Hewas directed to a chair, and became seated. He regarded all the womenabout wonderingly; for to him, none had said a word. He might as wellhave been in a house of tombstones, for they said naught to him, and didnot even look at him.
He sat where he was for perhaps two minutes. Then he arose and walked tothe door which he had entered, and turned to look back into the room. Itwas empty, every woman had disappeared without a sound in a twinkling,all except the woman who had admitted him. She stood behind, regardinghim noncommittally.
"What is this place?" he inquired of her. She looked up at him, and hethought he caught something queer in her eyes. But she replied in apleasant tone:
"Why, it is _anything_."
"Oh," he echoed. She continued to stand, not urging him to go, nor tostay. He looked at her closely, and saw that she was a white woman,perhaps under thirty.
"A sort of cabaret?" he suggested.
"Yes," she replied, in the same pleasant tone of voice. "A _sort_ ofcabaret."
"So you serve drinks here, then?"
"Yes, we _serve_ drinks here."
"Where?"
"Well," and she turned and he followed her to another room apparentlythe abode of some one. Included in the furniture there was a table andtwo chairs, and while he became seated in one, she took the other andher eyes asked what he wished.
"A cocktail," he said.
She went to a tube and called the order.
"And something for yourself," he said.
She did as he directed, and duplicated his order. She came back to wherehe sat by the table and sat before him, without words, but a pleasantdemeanor.
"Here's luck," he said, when the drinks had been brought up.
"Same to you," she responded, and both drank.
He told her then to bring some beer, and when the order had been given,he bethought himself of his errand. Instantly he became oblivious of allabout him, and the old agony again returned. He stretched across thetable, and was not aware that he groaned. He did not hear the woman whostood over him when she returned with the beer. He was living the lifeof a few minutes before,--misery.
"Here is your beer," she said, but he made no move. Presently shetouched him lightly upon the shoulder, whereupon he sat erect, andlooked around him bewilderingly.
"Your beer," she said, and he regarded her oddly.
"What is the matter?" she said now, and regarded him inquiringly.
"I was thinking," he replied.
"Of something unusual," she ventured.
"Yes," he answered, wearily. "Of something _unusual_."
She observed him more closely. She saw his haggard face; his tired, wornexpression, and beneath it all she caught that sad distraction that hadrobbed him of his composure. In some way she really wished to help him.Here was an unusual case. She,--this woman who was for sale, becameseated again, and regarding him kindly she said:
"You are in trouble."
He sighed but said no word.
"In great trouble."
He sighed again, and han
ded her the money for the beer.
"I wish I could help you," she said thoughtfully and her eyes fell uponthe table. His hat lay there, and she saw therein the name of the townwhere it had been purchased.
"You don't live here?" she suggested then.
"No," he mumbled, trying to dispel the heaviness that was over him. Ifhe could just forget. That was it. If he _could_ forget and be normal;be as he had been until that evil genius had come back again into hislife. "No," he repeated, "I don't live here."
"And--you--you--have just come?" she said. Her voice was kind. "Isit--it--a _woman_?"
He nodded slowly.
"Oh," she echoed. "Your wife, perhaps?"
He nodded again.
"Oh!"
They were both silent then for some moments; he struggling to forget,she wondering at the strange circumstances.
"Has some one come between you?" she inquired after a time.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Oh, that's bad," she uttered sympathetically. "It is bad to comebetween a man and his wife. And you--" she paused briefly then bit herlip in slight vexation, then observed him with head bent before her. Itwas rather unusual, and that was what had vexed her. Could it meananything what a woman like her thought of or sympathized. Yet, she wasmoved by the condition of the stranger before her. She felt she had tosay something. "And you--you don't look like a bad fellow at all." Helooked up at her with expressionless eyes. She returned the look andthen went on:
"You have such honest, frank and truthful eyes. Honestly, I feel sorryfor you."
"Oh, thank you," he said gratefully then. To have some one--even _such awoman_ look at him so kindly, to say words of condolence was like waterto the thirsty. He thought then again of that other, and the father thatwas hers, who at that moment sat in the company of another man's wife.He recalled that Mrs. Pruitt said that he had been in town for severaldays and every day since he had been there. Naturally. This man courtedanother man's wife openly, yet was ready with all the force in him, themoment Jean Baptiste sought his God-given mate, to rise up in piousdignity to oppose him. Wrath became his now, and his eyes narrowed. Inthe moment he wanted to go forth and slay the beast who was making this.He rose slightly. She saw it, and her eyes widened. She reached out andtouched his hand where it gripped the table.
"Please don't do _that_," she said, and in her voice there was a slightappeal.
He regarded her oddly, and then understood. He sank back listlessly inthe seat, and sighed.
"Poor boy," she said. "Some one has done you a terrible wrong. It isstrange how the world is formed, and the ill fortune it brings to some.I can just see that some one has done you a terrible wrong, and thatwhen you rose now you would have gone forth and killed him."
He regarded her with gratitude in his eyes, and the expression upon hisface told her that she had spoken truly.
"But try to refrain from that desire. Oh, it's justifiable it seems. Butthen when we stop to think that we will never feel the same afterwardabout it, it's best to try to forget our grief. You are young, and thereare worlds of nice girls who would love and make for you happiness. Someday that will be yours in spite of all. So please, just think and--don'tkill the one who has done this."
"You are awfully kind," he whispered. He felt rather odd. Of all places,this was not where men came to be _consoled_, indeed. But herein he hadgotten what he could not get on Vernon Avenue where church members weresupposed to dwell. He arose now.... He reached out his hand and she tookit. "I don't quite understand what has happened, but you have helpedme." He reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins, and this hehanded her. She drew back her hand, but he insisted.
"Yes, take it. _I_ understand your life here. But you have helped memore than you can think. I was awfully discouraged when I came. Almostwas I to something rash. Take it and try to remember that you havehelped some one." He squeezed her hand, and she cast her eyes down, andas she did so, he saw a tear fall to the floor. He turned quickly thenand left.
He retraced his steps toward the Polk Street station, and to the boothhe had been inside of an hour before. He called Mrs. Pruitt, and after atime came back over the wire, in a low, meaning voice:
"_It's the wrong number._"
The Homesteader: A Novel Page 48
